Health Care Debate at the Diner
Little Jimmy was livid, his face about the same shade of red as the Hunts Ketchup on the South End Diner’s tables. Yukon Jack was baiting him, as usual, but Jimmy was way beyond easy banter and good humored ribbing. “I’m not saying Obamacare’s gonna solve all the problems, but dammit, Jack, you got a Cadillac health plan and I got nothin. You think that’s fair?”
Yukon was planning to work this fish slow, bring it in easy, no rush getting Jimmy in the boat right away. “Well, Jimbo, I worked for mine. Why should I pay for yours?” he grinned over a piece of toast heaped with plastic tub marmalade. “I worked TOO, you *&##!!X&**!!”
Cussing’s allowed in the Diner, but not all cussing, and already Big Larry was wiping his hands on his bacon splattered apron. “Jimmy!” he called from the grill and Jimmy put both hands in the air and mouthed I’m sorry. Not to Jack, just Larry, who shook his head and went back to work turning pancakes the size of manhole covers. And about as heavy, you ask me.
“I worked all my life at jobs that didn’t pay benefits, Jack,” Jimmy said, about 10 decibels lower. Jack chewed his toast, rolled his eyes, swallowed happily that sugary orange marmalade. “Shoulda changed jobs, sweetheart, gone for the bennies, not the easy work.”
Little Jimmy had his butter knife clenched like a machete. His blood pressure was cranked up double what Brenda’s coffee had elevated it to by his 3rd refill. Cumulonimbus thunderheads were forming over the porcelain rim of his mug. “I’m just sayin, Jack, it isn’t fair some get and some don’t.” Jack replied the way he always replied: “Who says life is fair, Jimmy?” Big happy smirk on his buttered lips.
“Let it go, Jack,” Indian Bob said, swiveling on his stool at the counter. Bob never says much, but when he does, folks generally listen. Bob is 6 foot 6 and runs about 300 pounds of mostly muscle. If he has a sense of humor, it’s beyond most of us. Jack, sensing his fish snapping the line right at the gunwale, asked not quite innocently, “Why should I?”
Bob leaned in so only Jack could hear. “Cause his wife is dying, man. Leave it be.”
We all mostly know each other down on the South End. That doesn’t mean we’re blood. But we KNOW each other. I heard a rumor later that someone sent Little Jimmy a cashier’s check. Some folks said it was a lot of money. It was even reported that the anonymous sender might’ve been Jack. Like I said, it was just a rumor.
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